Everything You Wanted To Be
by Jonquille Theravada
Summary: This is esstentially my take on what happened after the Jungle Movie. It may be a cliche, but it's a good cliche. Also I don't own Hey Arnold.
1. Chapter 1

It was rare for me to receive any letters in the mail. Really, it was rare for mail to reach the village I'd called my home since I was twelve. Letters from the gang back in Hillwood progressively got fewer and farer in between, to the point of where I wondered if I'd been forgotten. I pictured a friend I used to know bringing me up out of nowhere: "Hey, you remember Arnold?" Everyone would probably nod and say, "I haven't thought of him in years! God, I wonder how San Lorenzo is." I was in no way bitter of this; I figured five years was enough time to forget about anyone who had yet to visit. Of course, Gerald would write me occasionally, usually about his love life, which would meander from girl to girl but always end up back on Phoebe. So I was surprised to see the return address was not Gerald's but instead belonged to a girl who crossed my mind more often than I'd care to admit: Helga. For some reason unexplained by logic, my stomach dropped. It was silly. What was she going to do through a manila envelope?

The hot air around me grew hotter as I opened it. I was overreacting, perhaps because the situation was so strange. How did she know where to send it? Why was the envelope so thick? What was the purpose of this? There was one thing I knew for sure about Helga, however: She never ceased to surprise me. Taking deep breaths, I emptied the contents of the vesicle onto the dirt floor of the hut.

At least a hundred pictures spilled out. I rushed to look through them. It appears they were organized in some sort of chorological order before I haphazardly dumped them out. There was a picture of me with Sid and Helga from preschool. I smiled at the memory. My head was a lot bigger back then, and we all looked a little goofy. Another was of the entire gang on the stoop of the boarding house. God, it must have been from 4th grade. I'd almost forgotten what that place looked like all together. With the exception of Helga, who was scowling at me, we all looked pretty happy. I sorted through them one by one, watching nine years of my life in snapshots. The last one was of everyone the day before I left. It was the only picture in which no one looked happy. Even Helga's eyes portrayed something almost heartbreaking. Her emotions never failed to amaze me. Honestly, _she _never failed to amaze me, even after not seeing her for all these years. I would have never expected to get these pieces of my childhood. I didn't even know she had them.

It was as I was contemplating this that I noticed a smaller, white envelope had also come out of the yellow one. Curiosity overwhelmed me and I tore it open. Inside was a letter that read in elegant handwriting, "This is the last I have of you. Now that I've erased you from my photo albums, maybe I can erase you from my..." something has been erased, repeatedly, as it looked, "…head."

As touched as I felt a moment earlier, I was suddenly insulted. This girl, well, woman now, _still _hated me? After all these years, after not seeing me, after going through puberty and close to three completed years of high school and whatever else life had dealt her, she loathed me. Still! I'd never been malicious, and though I knew it would probably annoy her, I sat down with a pen and a piece of paper. I wrote an equally short note and attached a picture of myself building a house for a pregnant woman in the village. I'm not sure why I did the last part. Looking back now, it seemed spiteful. Almost mean. The picture nearly screamed, "_Here, Helga, look at how awesome I am. How many lives have YOU changed recently?" _And after all, wasn't she trying to get _rid _of pictures of me?

But it was sent and too late to regret. In two weeks or so, Helga would receive a letter from me saying simply, "I hope your life is everything you wanted it to be. You're really going to become someone astonishing, if you aren't already." It sounds cheesy, but the truth is, I will never stop trying to see the best in humanity, even if that human is someone who sent me a bloated envelope is an attempt to delete me completely from her memories. I'd like to think I'm more mature now, too. Rather than writing something nasty in reply or not writing back at all, I'd turned the other cheek. I've seen too much poverty and struggle here in Central America to even dare worry about some girl's pointless hatred towards me.

Anyway, I figured I'd better get used to it. I was returning for a visit once summer break started, and I'd be seeing plenty of old faces, including hers.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm trembling. Sobbing. Empty. Over the years, I have destroyed everything, torn each poem up into little pieces, taken shower after shower in hopes to scrub out the memory of the my love. He will never go. Thousands of miles away and he still makes me sick with heartache. Even after five years. Why didn't you see me, beautiful boy, as I pined after you? Why did I just let you go? I gather up all the leather-bound albums I have on my shelf. I get like this every once in a while. I snap, act manic for a little while, and once I have done something really satisfyingly crazy, I go back to being dead inside. It's like that little fire I used to have goes wild and engulfs my whole body before settling back to ashes, having burnt all of me to a cinder in the process. It's not like I'm a basketcase every moment of the day. Really, I've been doing very well. Maybe I just feel my emotions so strongly that they take over most of the time. As soon as that idea crosses my mind, I reject it. I haven't let myself feel anything, really, for quite some time. I must forget what this person looks like. Why would I still love someone who has almost surely forgotten about me entirely? It's as though my heart has been rubbed raw sometimes. And here I am, pouring over old pictures of my childhood sweetheart. How cute. How pathetic.

Every single picture he is in, I pull out. My heartbeat is erratic. I need to get rid of these things somehow. I take a few deep breaths and study the pictures more closely. I was so ugly when I was a kid. Arnold left before I went through puberty, before I Big Bob insisted upon my braces to fix my overbite so he could keep up the image of having an attractive family, and before I allowed Olga to used me as her little dress-up doll. Now that I think about it, I really _must _be dead in order to let Olga wax my eyebrows and play with my too-long hair every few weeks. What does my body matter, though, when my heart is in a country I've never seen before, never to return?

I rip up one of the pictures into tiny shreds. _This is what I think of you, Arnold._ I pick up the next one. Glancing at the image, I stop. I look about eleven. We're all in Gerald Field. I'm glaring as Arnold picks a daisy. I remember that.

"Look, Football Head, are we gonna pick daisies and stare at the clouds and la-de-da all day or are we gonna play some ball?" I had nearly screamed, raising my fists. As if I would ever, _ever _hit the one I love.

"I've never seen flowers growing here." He picked one. "Would you like it, Helga?"

I swear I nearly had an out-of-body experience. I got a little soft, the way I sometimes did, and said, "Well, sure, I guess. Since you already picked it." As I took it from his hand, my defenses went back up. "But don't get any ideas! I still hate you, Arnoldo!"

"Whatever you say," his half-lidded eyes and his little smirk irritated and enthralled me.

I had dried that flower and kept it, swooning over the memory belonging to it. But it, along with that ridiculous bow, eventually ended up in my fireplace as part of the healing process.

I love this picture. I love that this moment was captured. I love the boy with the stupid hat and oversized flannel. I could not physically destroy these beautiful photographs. I stuff them all into an envelope and Google where to send donations to the Green-Eyed people of San Lorenzo. I figure if I write Arnold's name on it, along with the given address, it would find him. The village couldn't have more than one Arnold. Even after that, I still feel incomplete, so I struggle to write out two succinct sentences expressing exactly how I feel about all these damn images of happiness. As I place the package into the mailbox, I feel a sense of extreme relief. I am liberated. Hallelujah, I am free! There was absolutely nothing left to remind me of him.

My mood has increased fiftyfold. It's April and the city of Hillwood is alive with spring. I've even begun to attend social events. I've started going to Rhonda's parties and really enjoying my junior year of high school, not that there's much left. And though I can't really go to a party without a boy trying to get my number, or get me alone, or ask me where I've been hiding all this time, I still enjoy myself. Now that I'm all the way out of my shell, I can really observe my peers. I still can't stand Harold, that obnoxious bastard tried to get in my pants the moment I walked into the party I'm currently attending. Gerald and Phoebe are flirting in the corner, currently together again and I hope it's for good this time. That's new for me—caring about others, let alone anything.

My thoughts are interrupted as Rhonda situates herself in front of me and offers me a beer. It's something expensive and foreign, which struck me as funny. That's not even normal. I thought teenagers typically bought a few 30-racks of the cheapest beer they could get a hold of. Anything in the name of class, I suppose. I open the can and took a small sip. Beer tastes awful to me, but the memories associated with the drink taste even worse.

"Helga, you look darling. Lace is very in this season, as are pastel colors, but I must say, you made it look more sexy than innocent. I'm impressed." Rhonda is just beside herself with joy that I'd been coming to her parties. After my ducking-to-swan transformation, everyone had wanted me to come to this or that. It meant more boys would come, hoping to get a little piece of the unobtainable. Personally, I don't think it's that I'm any prettier than the other girls, but simply because I refuse to date anyone. I'm the image of a conquest.

I glance down at my dress. It's powder blue and short with a sweetheart neckline and is made entirely of lace. "Thanks, it's from a thrift store," I answered. I tried to keep a little animation in my voice.

"Oh, one of a kind. _So _cool. You have style, Helga. You've become really feminine." I suppose that's a compliment coming from her, but honestly I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable, borderline angry. I'd rejected social norms for most of my life and now I'm being called feminine?

"If you'll excuse me, I need to go…get another drink." I've barely begun my first, but I need to get away from this idiot.

I'm nearing the kitchen as I hear a voice which I immediately recognize as the only person I really, genuinely like and am honest with.

"She was doing so well though, you see how she's been. Perhaps we shouldn't tell her."

I shouldn't be eavesdropping. I begin to walk away but I hear my name. I have to admit, I like to spy. I guess some things never change.

"Helga? Jesus, Phoebe, she's going to be fine. You aren't seriously telling me that she's magically acting like a normal person because she let go of Arnold, are you? She probably just got put on Prozac is all. And anyway, she never even liked the man, if I remember. I'm sure she's forgotten all about him."

I'm holding my stomach. I _was _doing so well. I hardly ever think of him anymore.

"I don't know what to do about this, Gerald." She sounds annoyed. "We're damned if we tell her now, we're damned if we wait. Either way, this conundrum isn't going away."

_Tell me what?_

"Babe, can we talk about it in the morning? This is too stressful to deal with. We're supposed to be having fun. And next month, when Arnold visits, we'll be having the time of our lives."

I can't wait around to hear Phoebe's reply. I'm nauseous and I need to throw up. I run to the bathroom and dry heave for a moment. After I realize there's nothing _to _throw up, I return to the party. I can do this. I chug the rest of my beer. It makes me feel a little dizzy, but this dizzy isn't enough.

I walk as daintily as I can over to the kitchen, careful not to make my head spin. Sid was getting a beer from a box. He's gotten pretty tall now, has a few tattoos, and still wears a leather jacket. Girls fall all over him. He has a reputation for being a bad boy and getting all kinds of laid.

"Hey, could you grab me one, Sid?" Sid glances up and smiles.

"Is that all you want me to grab, gorgeous?" He was winking at me. If I was woozy before, I'm definitely sick to my stomach now. I don't have the energy to say anything back. Five years ago I would have decked his sorry mouth in. Then again, five years ago no one thought I was gorgeous. I grasp the beer in my hands and exit the kitchen. A few more of these and I'll be light as a feather and happy, too. Hey, it works for Miriam, right? Once I get back into the living room and drink a few more beers, I begin to feel lively. I'm grinning and talking loudly to some bulky football player I've never met when Phoebe pulls me aside.

"Helga, how much have you had to drink?"

"I dunno. Five beers."

"That's far too many."

"Don't judge me. Gerald drinks." I'm beginning to slur my words at this point.

"That's right. But you know you can't get too carried away. You can't end up like—" That hits me like a slap in the face.

"I can't end up like what?" I egg her on.

"I'm going to get Gerald to walk you home. I'm not going to argue with a drunk." That hurts even worse. I've been in Phoebe's shoes many times.

"Okay," I sigh. "I love you, Pheebs. I'm sorry."

"Let's talk about it when you're sober." Her eyes narrow.

The night is crisp and fragrant as Gerald strolls with me a few blocks down to my house. I'm sober enough to not need help walking, and Gerald is mostly there just to make sure I get home safely. I am, however, too drunk enough to keep my big trap shut.

"So, Geraldo, any news?" I hint. He flinches, and then resumes his calm facial expression.

"Nope."

"I can't call you Tall Hair Boy anymore," I giggle. He'd cut his hair a few years back and wore it pretty short nowadays.

"Not that Helga G. Pataki really talks to anyone."

"I'm going to remember this tomorrow, you know."

"Man, sorry. You're right. You can still call Harold Pink Boy." I see an excellent segue and go for the kill.

"If he were around, would I still be able to call Arnold Football Head?" Gerald freezes dead in his tracks. He looks up at me. He knows I know. There's no way he wouldn't. He gulps hard.

"Mmmm," he hums between his lips, "I guess you'll find out for yourself in a few weeks."

"I intend to."

"What else are you spying on?" I smile mischievously as we near my house.

"It's a mystery," I answer. At that, Gerald sighs. Although it's really late, I check the mailbox. I can't count on either parent to be responsible for these things. I flip through the bills, but one letter stops me. Gerald is just about to turn around and leave when he notices my reaction.

"Helga, man, you look like you've seen a ghost," He says.

"Arnold…" I drop all the mail. "He…he wrote...he wrote back."

"_Back?_" Gerald repeats.

"I feel light-headed." I sit down on my stoop.

"Are you gonna open it?" He's eager. Who could blame him? My hands are shaking and I hand him the letter.

"I can't. You." Gerald tears the thing open excitedly.

"You want me to read it?"

"I…I don't know. Stop asking me questions." My old tone of anger colors the edges of my voice.

"I says, 'I hope your life is everything you wanted it to be. You're really going to become someone astonishing, if you aren't already.' Man, what a bold kid. Hey, there's a picture too."

"I'm going to throw up." I snatch the paper from Gerald's hands and bolt inside. The moment I get to the sink I empty the contents of my stomach. Miriam is passed out behind the sofa and Bob isn't even home. I feel a little better and hold my hands steady as I lift the picture to my face. It's him, standing on a ladder thatching a straw roof. A woman is in the entryway of the hut, her stomach revealing that she's expecting. Arnold's arms are muscular but lean and he appears to be pretty tall. He has that look on his face that he used to get when he was helping someone. Oh, and that tan he must have acquired from living down there. And those eyes. He's really grown into his head, too. That unruly, sexy hair…I bite my lip. Steady now, Helga, old girl. You need to rest. You just need to sleep this alcohol off, establish that this is not a dream, and think about this logically in the morning.

I practically float upstairs and fall asleep with the picture of my darling clutched to my chest.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke up with a sense of utter peace. In a few short hours I would board an airplane on its to Hillwood Airport. It was weird, I should have been freaking out or completely nervous. Instead, I was calm. I wouldn't really miss this place too much. After all, I was heading back here in September. I wouldn't be moving back to the states permanently until I started college. I'd miss my parents for sure, who were not accompanying me on my trip. I breathed the moist air, untainted by pollution. I wondered if I'd adjust well to those three and a half months of city life.

I pulled myself off my cot and padded my way to the cliff where I shared my second real kiss with Helga G. Pataki. It seemed strange now that I really reflected on it. Giving me life-changing assistance, proclaiming her love to me, then immediately pushing me away and saying it was the heat of the moment cannot happen more than once. Yet it happened twice.

Kids didn't know what love was anyway. She might have had a little crush on me, at most. I probably had a crush back. That was long gone, and she had made it obvious in her recent package that we wanted nothing to do with me.

"Arnold, sweetie, enjoying one last view? Are you all set to go?" My mom was worrying incessantly about my journey. She spent nine years away from me and hated the thought of another three months. Honestly, I hated being apart from her as well, but my dad insisted that I go take care of my grandparents and get reacquainted with my friends. I was looking forward to seeing Grandpa and Grandma again, and Gerald.

"Yeah, Mom," I replied as I kissed her cheek. I was taller than her now, growing to be about my dad's height and have his body structure.

"Oh, why'd you have to go and grow up so fast?" She had tears in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. I could almost feel her adding, _why did I have to miss so much of it?_

"It's okay, Mom. I'll be back before you know it." With that, I boarded the helicopter that would take me to Aeropuerto de San Lorenzo. And I was okay, until Hillwood came into view through my window. The second I saw the tiny toy buildings and heard the pilot make the announcement that we were preparing to land, there was a lump in my throat I couldn't swallow. I felt the need to escape, but it was too late and I was descending into a world that was no longer familiar to me.

"It's okay," I thought inwardly, trying to talk myself out of panic. "The people down there are genuinely good. I grew up with them. I'll meet Gerald and Grandpa at the airport and everything will be okay." As the plane jolted downward, I felt my stomach flip; only adding to my nervousness. Great.

"Arnold!" Gerald threw his arms around me. I felt tears welling in my eyes and fought them away. I was a man now. I shouldn't be crying. When I pulled back, though, I realized he'd started to cry, too. God, he looked different. At the same time, though, he looked entirely the same.

Grandpa rested his hand on my shoulder. "It's good to have you back, Shortman. Now let's get to the Packard. Pookie said she's making lion for dinner so we better make sure she's not doing anything illegal."

I let out a good-natured chuckle. What on earth had I been so worried about? Everything was perfectly fine and I would be with people who love me the entire summer.


	4. Chapter 4

_I am fourteen and I am unruly as hell. I sneak out for hours with older kids who can drive and smoke cigarettes and deface street signs. I think it's all so artistic and bohemian and cool. I think I'm hot shit, really. I think Bob is too much of an idiot to realize what kind of trouble I'm getting into on a regular basis. I think wrong. _

_I sneak back into my window at 4 a.m., hoping to catch a couple hours of sleep before I have to go to school._

"_Just where do you think you've been, Little Lady?" Bob says, startling me. I nearly fall back out the window and into the tree. _

"_None of your god damned business, Bob," I say, injecting as much venom as I can into each word. _

"_Do you know how late it is? A 12-year-old can't be out at this time." I realize that he reeks of beer._

"_I'm 14. Get out of my room. Get out of my life."_

"_Hey, hey, hey! You are grounded, Olga."_

"_Oh, I am?" I laugh. "Who's going to ground me? You, at work thirteen hours a day? How about your poor, drunk wife? You have no power over me."_

_He hits me hard. He hits me like he's been meaning to hit me for a while but was too busy working to get around to it. He hits me again for good measure and my lip splits open. He breathes hard and his face is red. His eyes are eerily calm, like he just got something off his chest that he'd been holding in for a long time. He looks at his hands. I see a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. He leaves without a word. I lose my will to fight then. What was the point? There is nothing to fight for. There is no deus ex machina to save a damsel in distress. There is no damsel in the first place. There is a tomboy who constantly disappoints and hurt everyone around her and there's certainly no Arnold. _

_I don't go to school that day. I sit in my room, tearing up all the little pink books I have with all these stupid little poems about a stupid little boy. I hate men. I hate them. All they do is hurt me. Some of them attach to your heart like barbed wire and when they leave, they take pieces of you with them. Some hurt you with purpose; because it relieves them. They want to be dominant. Some loom over you and comply as you hurt them. I want no company with any of them. _


	5. Chapter 5

The music was loud as a handsome, lanky man stood in the corner of a rager. It was one of many hosted by Rhonda Wellington Lloyd, and it was also one of many he had never been invited to but attended regardless. He'd noticed a girl sitting alone in a blue dress. She was beautiful, but he didn't notice that. To him, girls who weren't Rhonda may as well not have faces. He did notice that she was alone, as was he, and he noticed that this was the same girl who he occasionally saw at Dr. Bliss's office while he was waiting for a session. He sat down next to her.

"Hello, you're Helga, correct? We went to elementary—"

"No."

"No, you're not Helga?" He stopped, he was sure this girl was Helga. The face around the eyes had evolved, but those intense eyes were impossible for anyone to forget.

"I'm Helga, but the answer is no," she gave a little laugh, "I lost my number."

He was offended then. Who was this girl to assume every member of the opposite sex wanted her? As he studied her face for a moment, though, he realized she was right to think that in most cases. "Your attitude hasn't changed much."

"You'd be surprised." She was being aggravatingly succinct. He wasn't very good in social situations was starting to gain a temper. He exhaled a little and remembered what he'd practiced in therapy. He could have a normal conversation.

"Anyway, I don't want your phone number."

"We went to elementary school together?" She asked. She was looking at his face now, trying to place it in a sea of children. She couldn't figure it out.

"Briefly," he said, smirking. "I left after fourth grade."

"_Curly_?"

"I haven't heard anyone call me Curly since I was nine," he chuckled.

"What happened to you?" She was bewildered. She found herself interested in this person despite her constant impulse to not give a shit about anyone.

"I suppose I could ask you the same question, but I went to a _home _for a little while. After I got out my mom and I moved to England and I finished up school over there. I moved back a few months ago."

"Does Rhonda know you're here?" Helga chose to ignore his previous sentences. A _home_? An institution?

"If she did, don't you think I'd have gotten kicked out by now?"

Helga laughed. It was a full-bodied, hearty laughter that she hadn't really experienced in a while. "You're loony-tunes. But all the power to you, Curly."

"My name's actually Tad." It was silent for a beat, and he could tell the pretty girl sitting next to him was losing interest fast. She began to stand up. "Don't I see you at Dr. Bliss's?"

She froze. Her cheeks turned a lovely deep pink. "No, you have never seen me there. Who's Dr. Bliss?"

"If you ever need to talk, I'll listen." He could be this girl's friend.

She stopped and turned around. Her face was tense. He realized he'd said something wrong. That was typical of him. Inwardly, he kicked himself for being so damn stupid.

"I want nothing to do with you." She was serious. Her eyes glared the way he'd always remembered.

"Why not? Why can't we be friends?"

"No man is a friend of mine," she answered as she turned her back and was confronted immediately by the love of Tad's life. They spoke briefly and he was jealous of anyone who Rhonda would compliment and smile at and hand a beer to.

That night Rhonda went to bed with Sid, just like the party before she went to bed with Harold, and Tad breathed slowly and deeply as he thought about how Rhonda was worth so much more than that. He tried his damnedest to kill the rage that burned inside of him, and then he walked the 680 steps to his house, counting each one. He went to bed alone and thought of a raven-haired woman who liked to have mindless sex and didn't realize what she deserved. It was ironic, how a girl who always expected the best didn't realize what the best was.

He loved her. He loved her like nothing in the world. He loved her more than fucking her and sneaking out the window at 2 a.m. and he loved her more than some boy who could buy her jewelry in exchange for a blow job and a boost in social status. He loved her and he wished that that could be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

It's the 25th of May and I've been waiting with trepidation for the return of Arnold. All I could do this past month was run and sleep. When I run, I run for miles. I don't know what I think I'm getting away from, but it's the same with sleep. I'll go to bed at five or six and waste hours in slumber. I thought initially it was an escape from Arnold, but I soon realized my dreams are filled to the brim with images of his face.

School officially ended yesterday and I know for a fact that Arnold has been in town for three days. I've had the good fortune to not run into him yet, but then, I haven't really gone out much. It's 11:00 a.m. and I'm still in bed when Miriam bursts into my room.

"Helga, we're out of…Tabasco…"

"What do you want _me _to do about it, Miriam?"

"I just want you to get up and go get some. You've been in your room since three o'clock yesterday afternoon. Now, do you think that's healthy?"

"About as healthy as chugging five bloody maries as soon as your daughter acquires said sauce." I realize there's no use in reasoning with her and pull myself up. Still wearing pajamas, I head to the store. I'm trying to remember what brand Miriam likes when I hear someone clear their throat behind me. Turning around, I realize it's Rhonda. Well, that's not as bad as it could have been.

"Hello, doll. You look like you need to wake up a bit. Still adorable, though." She winks at me. Disgusting.

"Hey, Rhonda."

"So did you hear about Arnold?"

"Yes." I freeze.

"Have you seen him yet?"

"No."

"Well, he's gotten quite handsome if I don't say so myself." Gotten? He always was handsome. And how dare she call my love handsome. "Why haven't you seen him? You should stop by the boarding house this evening; the whole gang is getting together and watching movies."

That throws me way off guard. "Is…that a drinking game?" I had never known Rhonda to pass up the opportunity to throw a party.

"Oh no, it was simply what Arnold wanted to do with us. I'm sure he'd be interested to see how you've changed. After all, you're the only one of us who's become a completely different person. Anyway, I've got to get some finger-sandwich ingredients for the get-together. Love you, bye!"

Every single damn time I talk to that girl I hate her more and more. I sigh and head home, winding myself up about Ms. Rhonda Wellington Lloyd. Next, I call Phoebe.

"Why didn't you tell me about the movie night at Ar—_his _house?"

"Well, Helga, I believe I thought you weren't interested because you were healing so nicely and—"

"I'm going to be there. Bye." My words sound angry. I decide that if I'm going to this, I'm going to look pretty. I nap for a few hours, and then get up to shower and blow-dry my hair. I spend a few minutes applying thick eyeliner to the upper lid of each eye, going for a 40s-movie-star look. I slip on a button-up floral dress, put on a pair of heels and head out the door.

I pass Gerald Field. I'm breathing hard and I'm getting shaky. I sit down in the grass because my legs got too heavy for me for lift. It's not safe for me to be alone at night in the city, I know, but I think I'm safer here than in the clutches of Rhonda in the house of my love. I look up at the stars and try really, really hard not to think about that beautiful boy. I rest my cheek on the ground. To my left is a flower. It's like the one Arnold handed to me six years ago. Arnold. Arnold, who came back. Who I need to go see. Who's a girl to argue with a sign?

When I ring the door bell, I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. It is of course Rhonda who answers and escorts me to the living room. My heart is beating all the way into my throat as we see everyone sitting in front of the TV, I can't even for a second focus on Rhonda's mindless chatter. I focus on the back of Arnold's head and exhale heavily. I'm safe. He can't see me.

"We have a new guest gracing us with her presence," Rhonda announced. I can't tell if that was a joke or not, but I feel like a deer in the headlights as all eyes turn their way from the TV to me. The male eyes linger a little longer and I force myself not to look into the eyes that I know and love. I can't do it, though, and I find myself hungrily staring into the greenest eyes I've ever seen. And he's staring back. My breath catches in my throat. What is his facial expression?

"Hello," he greets. His voice is so deep. It melts me.

"Hey, Arnold," I answer pleasantly. I have nothing. No malice, no hope. Nothing. I don't know why I'm here. What did I expect? Did I think he was going to want me instantly and beg me to be his? I stand there for what feels like several hours.

"Rhonda, where are the refreshments?" I ask politely.

"Oh, the kitchen. Do you know the way?" Of course I knew the way. I'd been inside his house many times. More times than I'd care to admit.

"I'll show her," Arnold volunteered. Okay, maybe I can pretend I don't know where I'm going. "Come with me." He leads me through a door. I'm absolutely silent. I am both terrified and exhilarated. "You don't talk much, do you?"

It occurs to me that he might not recognize me. If he knew who I was he wouldn't be this nice. Would he? "You remember me, right?"

He stops and turns around. He studies my face for a minute. His jaw becomes unhinged.

"Helga?"

_Yes, my love. _"That's my name."

"But you look so…different."

"People grow up."

"You grew up well."

I blush. "Don't say things like that to me."

He blushes back. "I—I'm so sorry. I forgot you hate me," he chuckles warmly. _I don't hate you, darling. I don't. I never have, nor will I ever._ "That is…if you still hate me. I figured you did since you tried to erase me from your life." His words got a little bitter at the end.

"I'm…" I'm what? Sorry? Embarrassed? Nervous as hell? Yes, all those things. But something leaps to life inside me then. "I'm going to punch your damn teeth into your goofy-shaped head if you say one more word about that. Do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Helga." He's smirking. I can't contain myself. I needed to get out of there soon. His expression changes as he looks at my face again. "What happened to your bow?"

"You remember my bow?" My eyes are wide.

"Of course I remember your bow. You only wore it from the day I met you to the day I left."

I heart hurts. "It was an absurd symbol of my childhood. Like I said, people grow up, Footba—_Arnold. _I'm different."

"Rhonda had told me you were."

"Rhonda is a superficial idiot."

There was a smile in his gorgeous eyes. "You shouldn't talk that way about someone who only says nice things about you." I'm studying his face, trying to etch it in my mind. It's something I haven't done since I was a child. I realize a minute or two has elapsed with him staring at him like a complete moron. "It's okay," he winks and smiles, "I won't tell."

Damn it. Why does he have to do this? This isn't like him. But then, I haven't seen him in so long. Maybe my love has changed. That's okay. I've changed, too. I'm beginning to lose control, I want to kiss him so bad. "Oh, _please _don't tell her. I might lose my high social standing, and that's so important to me!" I say sarcastically.

"I didn't mean—"

"Yeah, you know what? I'm suddenly not very thirsty. I'm suddenly not in the mood to sit in a room with you and your little stupid baseball—wait. Where is your hat?"

He's stunned. After he gets over the initial shock, his eyes narrow. "It was stupid and little," he answers matter-of-factly. "Hey, Helga?" His voice was timid now.

"What?" I ask, sounding far more annoyed than I actually was. No, that's a lie. I was extremely annoyed. With my stupid, damn, awful self. Whenever he gets close, my walls go up and I push him far away. He's the land in a sea and I'm drowning with no one to blame but myself.

"You don't have to be this angry."

"Oh, yes, I absolutely do."


	7. Chapter 7

_Phoebe is crying. She's crying like she has been for the past week. It bothers me, usually, when someone cries, especially in public, but this is Phoebe and I'm her best friend. No one hurts my best friend. She's ashamed and tries to hide her head in our opened locker. Her tiny body trembles with the weight of her sadness. _

_ "Why would he do that to me?" She's been repeating this phrase over and over, and I have the answer. _

_ "Pheebs, he's a man, and Men cannot be trusted. Do you remember when he did this in 4__th__ grade with that girl, Chloe?" My words don't comfort her. I hadn't intended to sound callous, but here I am making myself look like an uncaring bitch. "Phoebe." She looks up, tears streaming down her face. "Do you want me to do something about it?" _

_ She stops crying. She is absolutely still. "What?" Her voice expresses surprise. _

_ "I will knock him out for what he did. No one does this to you." Gerald left Phoebe earlier that week for a senior named Connie. It's about halfway through sophomore year, and there is no one in the world Phoebe has ever loved more. I know that feeling. _

_ "Why, Helga, I haven't seen you express such emotion since—" _

_ "Yeah, I know. I swear to God, Pheebs, no man will ever hurt you while I'm around. He can't get away with that."_

_ "Do not harm him. I love him."_

_ "And look where loving him got you," I say, realizing it's a mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth. She begins to cry again. It's a rare day when Phoebe __Heyerdahl allows her emotions to get in the way of logic. It's a rare day when I feel angry at anyone but a boy who's long gone. "Shit. Phoebe, I'm sorry. I'll be right back, okay?"_

_ "Where are you going?" Her voice is uncertain and shaky, although she knows exactly where. _

_ "I'm going to pull someone names Ol' Betsy out of retirement," I answer under my breath. _

_ "Hey, Helga," Gerald greets me pleasantly. His arm is around that skank and they're sitting on a bench in the hallway. He probably didn't expect me to answer him considering how I barely say anything to anyone, and turns his head back to Connie in order to kiss her. That incorrigible, arrogant little asshole. I snap. My fists clench. He turns his head back to me. "Why are you still—"_

_ He wasn't able to finish his sentence. I hit him harder than I've ever hit anyone in my life. _

_ "That's for Phoebe." I punch him one more time. "And give that one to your stupid best friend." No one hears that last part. There's a crowd now, standing around with dropped jaws and wide eyes. Gerald is either very, very badly injured or in a state of complete shock. I hope both are the case. My emotions are getting the better of me. I have the urge to kick him but I fight both it and the tears that are welling in my eyes. _

_ "The dang purttiest girl in our school knocked Gerald flat," Stinky says, the first one to have the courage to speak. That sends me back to reality, and suddenly I'm embarrassed. I don't want this kind of attention. There are whispers. Someone shouts that a teacher is coming and I make my exit. The crowd parts like I'm Moses and they're the sea. I can't go my next class. I need to cry, or sleep, or fly to a foreign country and continue to express how hurt I am by beating a stupid blonde boy up. I do the first two._


	8. Chapter 8

It's 3 a.m. and everyone is asleep save for Gerald and me. Phoebe is on the couch, having told her parents that she was spending the night at my house. I don't know what these other kids told their families, but I do know that my parents probably haven't noticed that I'm gone. The only thing I notice is Arnold's peaceful expression as he dreams, and although I hope it's about me, I know it isn't. My heart is a bird, fluttering around trying to escape the cage that is my ribs. I'm groggy, but I'd never miss this. My love is a few feet away from me, fast asleep. I hope to wake up to that face every morning. Fuck. That idea can't form in my head. That will absolutely never happen. God, though, he's beautiful.

"Do you want to watch the first Evil Twin?" Gerald asks, pointing at a DVD in his hands. That must have come out when I was 8 or so.

"Yeah, go for it," I answer, too tired to say anything overly sarcastic. He puts the movie in and the opening sequence begins.

"So, what happened when you were with my man? You guys were gone a while."

I freeze. "Nothing," I say lamely.

"I'll ask that kid tomorrow then," he chuckles. The nerve of him.

I play with my hair nervously. I was so serene a few moments ago. As I reflect upon it, I start to work myself up. Ask Arnold? He'd ask that gorgeous man barely an arm's length away from me? I know he'd divulge that information too. He might even say he survived being in a room with the vicious Helga G. Pataki. Those awful bastards. A snarl is forming at the corner of my lips.

"You wouldn't," I say. I'm starting to grind my teeth. Why do I get so mad so easily? I see fear in the edges of Gerald's eyes. In a moment, that's gone and replaced with smugness. Men never learn.

"Helga," he says with a short laugh, "Arnold is right." That laugh makes me see fire. I'm revolted. And how is Arnold right? What did he say? My quizzical nature swallows my aggravation.

"About?" I decide, then, to try to speak as sparsely as possible so as not to accidently give away anything.

"You aren't so bad. Not that you've ever done anything but ignore everyone. With the exception of sophomore year." His voice sounds a little hostile as he adds that last part, and I certainly want to show him as bad as I could be.

"You deserved nothing better," I reply flatly.

"I was a bastard. I can't argue with you, man," he says. "Anyway, I'm not the one who nearly ruined my reputation to give some bastard a black eye." He sounds honest, and though I'm a skeptic, it's very believable. I'm amazed. I've never heard any man but Arnold show remorse for something.

"My reputation? You mean how everyone is convinced I'm a damned angel?" I question, divulging more of myself than I'd meant to. He mentioned Arnold, and that's my weakness. I wonder if he knew that.

"You're a bold kid, Helga."

"I'm not a kid," I say firmly.

"Fine, fine! Man, I didn't even know you knew people thought that."

"You spend your life being ignored and told you're ugly," I begin, knowing what I'm about to say is something I'll regret, "and you notice when people begin to think otherwise. It's frivolous, but it's how people operate. I can think of two people who aren't like that."

"Damn," he stretches the word out, "I didn't know you thought like that." Goddamnit. "Can I ask who?"

"Phoebe," I say, hoping he doesn't ask for a second name. "She's intelligent enough to realize this. She's known it since we became friends over a decade ago." My eyelids were getting heavy. "Now, if you excuse me, I need to fall asleep."

"Pataki?" Gerald asks. His tone sounds so raw and heartfelt. I pull myself from my fog of sleepiness.

"Yes?"

"You're alright."

"Don't get used to it, buck-o." Did I just say _buck-o_? I haven't said that in years.

And then I dreamt of Arnold the way I wished he would dream of me.


	9. Chapter 9

"Gerald?" I asked hesitantly. He was reclined on my couch, popping potato chips into his mouth. I was seated on my bed across the room, already beginning to blush.

"Yes, my man?" Gerald asked, raising an eyebrow in my direction, having noticed my discomfort.

"Um…so…what happened to Lila?"

Gerald began to laugh. "Man, you better just forget that one."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you know how the _ever so's _and the braided pigtails and the innocent little schoolgirl act is cute on a nine-year-old?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, it is _not _cute on a 17-year-old who tries to convert everyone to Christianity and tells everyone that she's ever so pure." I had never had a problem with Christians although I wasn't religious myself, but it annoyed me sometimes when people tried to force their beliefs on others. Missionaries sometimes came around when I was living with the Green-Eyed People, but for the most part, the villagers stuck with their own traditions and the missionaries left a little too upset for someone who was supposed to be spreading words of love.

"I supposed I can understand that. What about—" I wasn't able to finish my next question, not that I would have had the nerves to actually spit out the name "Helga." Grandpa knocked at the door, cutting me off.

"Hey, Tallman." I rolled my eyes at that. "One of you little, I mean big, friends is here."

"Thanks Grandpa, who?"

"I don't know, the one girl with too much money and not enough clothes on," he said, shrugging. "Should I send her up?"

"Uh… sure, thank you." He left and I raised an eyebrow at Gerald.

"Rhonda," he answered.

"I've never known Rhonda to not wear enough clothes…" I said, a bit confused. Gerald burst out laughing and quickly stifled it when he heard the doorknob turn. A lanky girl in a very short, backless, but loose-looking red dress and diamond earrings entered the room. To my shock and then embarrassment, I realized she wasn't wearing a bra. I blushed hard and kept my eyes fixated on her face, hoping the dress that was falling off her shoulders didn't reveal anything she might—or might not—want to keep hidden.

"Arnold, you doll!" Rhonda practically screamed, throwing her arms around me. I wish she hadn't, because I could feel her soft breasts against my chest and I felt like I was violating her or something. My already-present blush grew deeper.

"H-hi, Rhonda," I said, managing a smile. I looked away, too humiliated to look her in the eye.

"Darling, we simply _must _throw you a party so you can see all the people who are so eager to see how attractive you grew up to be." When I looked back at her face, she winked at me.

"What? NO," I say, looking at Gerald, completely terrified. Was she flirting with me?

"Well, of course. There is no arguing. Mummy and Daddy are in Austria this week to see an opera so I have the whole house to myself. What do you like to drink?"

"Drink? I've never—"

"Arnold, you wouldn't believe what's changed! Why, Helga, for instance…" she exhaled and shook her head in disbelief.

I tried to play it casual then. "What about Helga?" I squeaked. So much for being nonchalant.

"She's positively lovely. Tell her Gerald!"

"My jaw disagrees," he muttered.

"Tell. Her. Gerald." She was talking through her teeth.

"You know exactly what I'd say," he answered.

Exasperated, she rolled her eyes. "She's the most wonderful little creature in Hillwood! Besides me, of course," she flipped her hair and continued. "Style, beauty, everything that makes a person important."

"That's not what makes a person important," I countered. Outwardly, I tried to hide my emotions around this. Inwardly, I was perplexed. I always knew Helga was good. When I knew her, she was probably one of the best, most caring people I'd ever met. She just kept it a secret.

"Oh, she has the other things too, except availability."

"What do you mean? Does she have a boyfriend?" I almost wanted to kick myself for being so obvious in how I was feeling.

"The complete opposite. I don't even think she's kissed a man in her life." I blushed deeply again. I took a deep breath in and one out.

"She didn't even talk to men until late in March," Gerald commented. Late March? That's around the time I received those pictures. There's some connection there. There has to be, but I couldn't for the life of me place it.

"Anyway, I'll get all set on writing invitations. You sort of look like a beer man, maybe whiskey. I'll pick up both just in case you—"

"Rhonda, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't do that. I'd like a little get-together, maybe at the boarding house or something. We could watch movies…" she looked skeptical. I could tell I wasn't gaining much ground. "You could make finger sandwiches," I suggest. Her eyes light up.

"Oh, Arnold! You have such grand ideas! I'll get started making calls right away!" She gave me another too-close-for-comfort hug and exited.

There were a few minutes where Gerald and I remained silent, staring at the door.

"Man, you are _one _bold kid."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you gonna do Rhonda?"

My mouth dropped. "I…would never…" I shook my head. "No! Not unless I knew her, and was dating her, or was married to her, or something. Just do…that? To a nice young lady?" I was so flustered I stopped talking. I felt like a stammering idiot.

"Well, to me, it looks like you don't have much choice. That woman is a spoiled brat, and she gets whatever she wants. And what she wants…is obviously you."

"Gerald, there's no way you could tell that from her talking to us for maybe ten minutes."

"Oh, yes there is. That was Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd. Rhonda puts on an act like that for you…" he began to mimic her voice, "you doll! I want to take you up to my giant, gold-plated room and…"

"Gerald. Gerald! Stop!" If I thought I felt humiliated before, I was wrong. Just then, Grandma knocked on the door. Thank God.

"Kimba, get your cowboy hat and spurs! The rodeo is at the kitchen table!" She was holding a lasso. How did I survive so long without my quirky family?

"Coming, Grandma!" I was so, so relieved.

"So are you nervous?" Gerald asked, nudging me once Grandma was out of earshot.

"Nervous? Gerald, I'm not going to…do anything…with Rhonda."

"Not about that, my man." Gerald said, smiling slightly. "About meeting Helga."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Throughout the whole story I haven't made an author's note but I feel like there's a little confusion about a few things. First, the Jungle Movie did happen like everything was supposed to with a few minor changes, and there will be a flashback within the next chapter or two. So that accounts for Arnold having mixed feelings toward Helga. Second, the chapters are out of chronological order, yes. However, from each character's perspective everything happens chronologically. I don't necessarily have an explanation for this except it sort of made more sense for me writing it in my head that Helga would be a few steps (or in this case, chapters) ahead of Arnold. I mean, hasn't she always?**

**I'd also really like to thank ****pokingbuddy10 as well as everyone else for all of your support and positive reviews. That's much-appreciated.**

I'd figured everyone who was going to be at the party had already arrived. It made sense that Helga wasn't, and I couldn't tell if I was relieved or disappointed. We were halfway through our second movie when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" Rhonda said, convinced she was the host. I was trying to think of who it might be. Brainy wasn't here and neither was Sheena, so maybe one of them.

"We have a new guest gracing us with her presence," I heard Rhonda say. A few heads turned, including mine, to look at who could possibly be "gracing us." What I saw, though, made my jaw drop. There was a beautiful woman with long, blonde hair and big, intense blue eyes. I couldn't look away. I realized, then, that her eyes were staring back into mine. I got nervous, but there was something about her that calmed me a little bit underneath the wave of anxiety.

"Hello," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Something flickered in her facial expression.

"Hey, Arnold," she replied, her tone friendly. Her voice seemed so soft—_she_ looked so soft. She looked back at the lanky, raven-haired girl beside her. "Rhonda, where are the refreshments?"

"Oh, the kitchen. Do you know the way?"

Inwardly, I was cheering. "I'll show her!" I said, sounding a little too eager. "Come with me." I took her out into the hallway. She didn't say a single word as she walked a pace behind me.

"You don't say much, do you?"

"You remember me, right?" I stopped walking. Remember her? I'm sure if I ever saw this gorgeous girl in my past, I would remember. I turned around and looked at her face. Her cheeks and lips were so rosy around her pale skin, her eyes were so blue and haunting, they almost glared. I inhaled. I knew exactly who this was. My jaw dropped.

"Helga," I squeaked. How did this happen to her?

"That's my name."

I didn't know what to say. "You look so…" I wanted to say beautiful, or perfect, but I couldn't. This was Helga Pataki I was speaking to. "different," I finally concluded.

Her eyes grow more intense. It was like a clear, blue sky was beginning to storm. "People grow up," her voice was a little airy then. I could tell she'd meant it to sound tough but it hadn't come out quite right. _People certainly grow up, Helga._

"You grew up well," I said, fighting a blush. I'd hoped that didn't sound flirty or like I was trying to hit on her. I honestly wasn't…I didn't think.

She blushed, probably out of anger. "Don't say things like that to me." Had I expected her to reciprocate a compliment? I was embarrassed then, and a blush overwhelmed my face.

"I'm sorry," I practically stammered, "I forgot you hate me." That made me laugh. She was so complicated it seemed unnecessary. "That is," I began, "If you still hate me. I figured you did since you tried to erase me from your life." I frowned slightly, recalling my disappointment when I realized that that package was not a gift but a goodbye.

"I'm…" She looked shocked at first, her eyes were sad. Too soon, though, they glared. "I'm going to punch your damn teeth into your goofy-shaped head if I hear _one more word_ about that. Do you hear me?" Typical Helga.

"Loud and clear, Helga." I fought a smile. She was pretty cute when she got mad. Wait. Helga Pataki, cute? The thought was there and I couldn't deny it—Helga had blossomed into most gorgeous person I'd ever seen. I looked at her a few more seconds and realized something was missing. "What happened to your bow?"

"You remember my bow?" Her voice was small, almost touched.

"Of course I remember your bow. You only wore it from the day I met you to the day I left," I remember always liking it, the color, how big it was. It was unique and so purely Helga.

"It was an absurd symbol of my childhood. Like I said Footba—" She stopped, cleared her throat. I almost laughed at that. Some things never change. "Arnold. I'm different."

I recalled Rhonda's words from a few days before. "Rhonda had told me you were."

"Rhonda is a superficial idiot." I found that amusing. Her comment the other day about everything that makes a person important had struck a chord. Still, Rhonda really seemed to like Helga.

"You shouldn't talk that way about someone who only says nice things about you," I said. She stared at me for a while. I couldn't tell whether she was glaring or contemplating and I broke the silence. "It's okay, I won't tell."

"_Oh_, please don't tell her! I might lose my high social standing, and that's _so _important to me!"

That was unfair. No matter what I said to her, she'd turn it around. "I didn't mean—"

"Yeah, you know what? I'm suddenly not very thirsty. I'm suddenly not in the mood to sit in a room with you and your little stupid baseball…" she looked at me hard. "Wait. Where is your hat?"

I was offended. She knew how much that hat meant to me. It was actually sitting on a self in my room at the boarding house so I could see it every night and morning. "It was stupid and little." There were a few beats as I thought about Helga. She gets so close to me, she does something immensely wonderful like saving the neighborhood or reuniting me with my parents, she makes me want to reach out and touch her, and then she pulls away and makes me cringe with embarrassment that I ever thought I could see through her. "Hey, Helga?" I asked.

"_What_?" Helga snapped.

"You don't have to be this angry."

"Oh, yes, I absolutely do."

"No, Helga, you don't."

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, Grandpa walked through the hallway.

"There you are, Shortman! What are you doing away from your little friends? I went in there to check up on you."

"Just getting a few Yahoo's, Grandpa," I replied, thoroughly disappointed that he'd interrupted this important talk.

"Now, where's your little angry friend with the one eyebrow? I thought she'd be here. She was always outside the boarding house skipping rope, or showing up wherever we were…"

"Grandpa," I interrupted.

"Come to think of it, she was around a lot more than anyone else…"

"Grandpa…"

"Just like my Pooky…"

"Grandpa!"

Helga was frozen in place, her eyes unmoving. I could tell she was mortified, probably at Grandpa's obvious reference to her being ugly. I couldn't say much to her; all I could get out was her name. I was pleading. "Helga…"

"That's the one!" Grandpa responded, completely oblivious. Helga bolted from the hallway, her muscular legs disappearing behind the living room door. And she was beautiful and I felt unbelievably sorry.


	11. Chapter 11

_There was a mist in the jungle as Helga sat on the edge of the cliff, allowing her muscular legs to dangle off the edge. She was distracting herself as her love sat next to her. She could feel his blush, she thought, but perhaps it was the incessant heat. She studied the drop-off, morbidly wondering what would happen if she slipped. She decided it would be okay, dying just then, living ten years and allowing it to climax and resolve in such a beautiful way. She heard the beautiful boy next to her say her name in a way she'd heard only once before, on the top of a building months earlier. Before she knew what was happening, she found herself in a kiss so heartfelt that she couldn't do anything but succumb. _

_ "Arnold," she broke away. It was so complicated, and they both knew that. They were young, too young for anything serious, and she cleared her throat uncomfortably. Helga loved him too much, and she was well aware of the fact that she was about to ruin the moment. "We can't, you know, be together." It strained her to say it out loud, but she was strong. She was so, so strong._

_ The boy looked hurt. She knew exactly how things would play out. She wouldn't be the bully anymore. She'd be soft and everyone would make fun of her like they had in preschool when she'd shown any remnants of feeling towards him. They were too young and she wanted him. She wanted it to last the way she'd always envisioned it. Now that she had what she always pined for, she could see clearly. He was more important than her reputation, yes, but he was also so important that she wouldn't let their relationship be a shooting star destined to burn out soon after it was in the atmosphere. _

_ "You amaze me," he said, and she couldn't help herself. She kissed him again, hard. Faintly she heard something, a branch maybe, crack from behind them. _

_ "Arnold, where are—man! What are you doing?" There was surprise in the dark boy's voice as he saw something too shocking for any more words. Immediately, Helga's defenses were up. _

_ "This didn't happen, Tall-Hair Boy." She sneered at both boys there. "And if anyone says anything…you'll have to schedule an appointment with Ol' Betsy." Her voice was dangerous, but her intense eyes betrayed her, and she looked more hurt than angry. She stomped away, fists clenched, and tried not to cry. _


	12. Chapter 12

On the corner of 5th Avenue and Pike Street, a man wearing a white button-up cotton shirt and a patient look leaned against a lamppost and waited for a beautiful woman to exit the jewelry store he was looking at from across the street. Once she did, he watched for a few minutes, appreciating the way her hips swayed before scolding himself for objectifying who he loved. With ease and confidence, he pushed himself off the pole and followed. She had pulled out a cigarette complete with a holder and carried it like she was Audrey Hepburn. He smirked a little, finding it unnecessary and an obvious attempt at class, but also quite cute. She stopped in front of a coffee shop to read a poster and make a phone call. He sat down on a bench within earshot and preoccupied himself with his own phone.

"What do you mean you haven't seen her? Why don't you go to her house if you're so worried?" A pause. "People don't need space! Especially not someone who took several year's worth of space, if I remember correctly." A longer pause. "She had better be at my party tonight. She needs to apologize for running out on us all last week. Oh, and Phoebe? Guess who's going to make a move on a certain handsome blonde boy? _Moi. _Anyway, love you! Bye!"

The man frowned and ran his figures through his hair. Why did she do this to herself? He waited one hundred and thirty seconds to begin following her again when something occurred to him. Giving one last look at the beautiful creature in red several paces in front of him, he veered off and walked towards the neighborhood he'd grown up in. Upon reaching his destination, he immediately lifted himself onto a tree branch and climbed up to the second-story window. Finding it open, he swung inside.

A woman was asleep in her pink bed, curled to the side and looking much, much less angry than she usually did. He stopped then. It's socially unacceptable to be in someone's room without permission, especially with them sleeping right in front of you. He took a deep breath and leaned in.

"Don't scream," he said, making it sound more like a prayer he knew would go unanswered. The woman's eyes flew open, as did her mouth. He clasped a hand over it and repeated himself. She struggled and he let her go, realizing what he was doing was too abnormal.

"What are you doing here? How the fuck did you get in?" She was whispering angrily, as if she wanted to scream but couldn't risk it.

"Helga," the man said soothingly, trying to calm her.

"What the fuck kind of psycho are you?"

"Antisocial and histrionic personality disorder." He realized the question was rhetorical as soon as the words left his mouth and he wished badly to pull them out of the air. "That…isn't important. What is important is that the woman I love is out there about to sleep with the boy you loved and we can't let this happen."

"I don't know what you're talking about, or where you got that idea. Get. Out."

"Helga, listen to me."

"Get out, Curly, before I scream."

"Tad," he corrected. "Rhonda is going to sleep with Arnold. Tonight. Do you understand?"

"What do I care when a princess spreads her artificially tanned legs?"

"Don't talk about her that way. And don't act like you don't care what Arnold does."

"I don't," she said icily. The words were heavy and final, but her wide eyes betrayed her as they always did when she was a child.

"I know you do. And I have a plan."

"Want to know my plan? My plan is to stay in this room until September and not give a fuck about anyone's stupid plans. And my plan if you don't leave this instant is to tell Bob that there's a burglar in my room."

He clenched his jaw. Had he not been so focused on preventing Rhonda from sleeping with yet another boy, he would have lost his temper by now, and he realized he was losing patience fast.

"Does it make you feel good to act like you don't care about anything? You think you're so strong acting cold and distant. No one can hurt you when you do that. How's that working out for you, Helga Pataki?"

"Probably about as well as stalking someone who will never love you," she answered, trying to sound as cruel as possible. "Out. Now."

That hurt. Desperately, he massaged his temple. "Well," he said, "you have far more experience in that field, now, don't you?"

The woman had had enough. She shot out of bed, fists clenched. "What do you want from me, you evil little freak?"

"Your help. I don't plan on being the only one gaining a lover."


	13. Chapter 13

When I was fifteen years old, a man passed through the village I lived in. They called him a _curander_, a spiritual man. For whatever reason, during the weeks he stayed with us, he took an interest in me. I didn't mind. I liked him a lot, actually. There was something about him that radiated peace and I've always sort of gravitated towards unusual people. He was different though, because the Green-Eyed People liked him. Being superstitious, they thought his presence would prevent things caused by unfriendly spirits. For that reason, he wasn't the outcast I usually felt drawn to help. It was the very opposite, actually. I wanted his help and wisdom. I had a great deal of respect for someone who looked so worn and yet so joyful. In some aspects, he reminded me of Grandpa. Other times, though, he seemed generations older than the man I lived with for the majority of my life, with eyes fading to milk and infinite wrinkles.

It was, as always, a humid, unbearably hot night made nearly hellish by the fire when he said something that I recalled a few nights ago. How I forgot something so meaningful, I don't know. Everyone was asleep except for the two of us. He was smoking tobacco from a pipe. I always felt comforted by the scent. It brought me back to the boarding house, to childhood.

"Arnold," he said, his thick accent tumbling over the name a little. "There are ugly things in this world. In this country. In the surrounding villages, in people who are afraid of those who are different. People are ugly when they're afraid."

I hadn't been sure where he was going with this, but he had never said anything that didn't matter. He didn't participate in gossip or small talk. I wanted him to continue. "Afraid?"

"_Si_, and people aren't always afraid of people. They can be afraid of themselves. Their feelings, perhaps, of their pasts. Or futures." He took a long drag from his pipe and looked up at the sky. "That isn't why I am telling you this, Arnold. I'm telling you this because those people aren't really ugly. They're only ugly when you don't understand. You must not be scared of them. Fear breeds fear. And anger. It is in understanding that you will see when they are beautiful."

"Inwardly," I stated.

"Ah, and that is where you're wrong. It's not simply something that occurs in your heart. The old woman, _loco_, yes? The one who lives just outside this village. _Como se dice viuda_?"

"Widow," I answered. I knew of her. In fact, I didn't think she was crazy, although I never got too close. I'd offered to help her carry water countless times and was met always with an unpleasant look and one or two unpleasant words. She had the look of a madwoman, though, and that was frightening.

"Yes. She is not ugly, as everyone says. Her eyes, they're haunting and sad. She's strong. You see it, just in her eyes. And that makes her beautiful. Soul and everything that comes attached. She's afraid because she suffered such a loss. Do you understand now?"

I had nodded. Two days later the man left because it was a big world and there were countless scared people who needed someone to understand them. I hadn't thought of that night, as I said, for a while. I realized it applied to someone in particular, and although I would probably never know what exactly she was afraid of, I had a small level of understanding.

So, out of some measure of hope to absolve some fear, I went to a party hosted by Rhonda, who draped herself around me like a coat. And I didn't necessarily have time—or was too embarrassed—to turn her down as politely as I'd have liked. By that time, the girl I wanted to talk to was there, and had seen, not that it mattered, because I don't think she really cared one way or another what I did, and had started to drink, which interfered with my plan. A lot. I approached her anyway.

"I didn't know you drank."

"I didn't know you were shallow hook up with girls you're barely reacquainted with," she answered. She was holding a bottle to herself—clutching it, actually. Snarling, too.

"I didn't and I am not," I said. She lifted the bottle up, took a swig, grimaced and choked a little. Lowering it from her lips, she smiled genuinely. No malice or sarcasm. "Let me take that away from you, Helga, I think you've had enough."

"I haven't had enough until I don't know your name," she answered, slurring a few words and turning on her heel. I grabbed her wrist and spun her around to look at me.

"Sorry," I mumbled, looking down at my hand still around her. I realized I'd probably done so too forcefully, because she felt delicate. I blushed and met her eyes. The fury I'd expected from doing what I did wasn't there. In fact, her eyes were wide, like she was shocked. She probably was. What was I doing? I let go of her. I'd been holding on a few too many seconds. "That was really indecent of me," I began to fumble over an apology as she unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottom to the air. It looked heavy. She looked like she thought it was worth it. "Really, please let me take that…um… I want a shot!"

"You're a bad liar," she said, wiping drips off her pale chin. I felt someone next to me. I didn't look over, too focused on helping this girl in the only way I actually could at the moment, my plan left at door next to her sobriety.

"You're right. Would you like me to get you water? Or bread? I really can take that. Helga, no one is drinking just yet. You're going to hurt yourself." She laughed like I'd said something funny and turned to the person standing a little too close to me. She had a very meaningful look on her face, and took a long drink with purpose. She gagged and exhaled through her mouth.

"Darling, have you had all that to yourself?" It was Rhonda next to me. Without waiting for a response, she continued. "You must have. No worries, there's plenty more. However, you're simply amazing, Helga! You don't even look sick. God, I wish you'd started coming to my events sooner." _What! _How could she praise this? It's dangerous! Her classmate could get injured, or get alcohol poisoning once it started to course through her veins. She could get in trouble with the law. Everyone here except Phoebe and me could. Leaving sounded like a good idea all of a sudden, but I felt responsible for everyone around me, especially the girl who'd chosen to down half a bottle of whatever that was before anyone else had even opened a beer.

"Cigarette," Helga answered. I might have imagined her grinding her teeth.

"Always," Rhonda answered. The girl next to me pulled a pack of them out of her pocket. Horrified, I watched her hand one of the little sticks to Helga. I'd seen plenty of people smoke before, of course, but always older people. People who I'd been told had earned the right to smoke through wars and childbirth and hard work.

Helga looked up at me. "I don't smoke. Miriam does this so she doesn't throw up. She smokes, I mean. She doesn't smoke either. Except then. I mean, fuck. I'm going to try it."

"Miriam. Your mom?" I asked. I guess that wasn't really a big deal, I'd seen my mom drunk on a few occasions. It happens to everyone.

"Prin—Uh, shit. Rhonda. I'll go out back, then?"

"Yes, doll. Pick up an ashtray on your way out, if you could. Thanks."

Still holding her liquor by the neck of the bottle, she strode off, not quite stumbling but looking to be in a very, very big hurry.

Over music, I could almost swore I'd heard her shout "Ashtray, my ass!"

"Would you like to go someplace alone, now that you've been a hero today?" She was teasing, I knew, but it wasn't exactly funny.

I turned to look at her. I put my hands on her shoulders, arms-length away, as if I was going to shake some damn sense into her. I realized the physical contact was a mistake about half a second before I touched her and she quickly stepped in a little too far so my arms would be around her neck. She turned her face sideways a little, moving in slowly. "Or right here. Either," she whispered in a voice I assumed was supposed to be sexy. I think she was afraid too, but of something else, and I knew what it was. She was afraid of not living up to her money, and she was afraid of only being money, and she was afraid of losing her money. She was afraid people were going to see that she was insecure, and she was so afraid that she took boys up to her room and… well, whatever they did up there, I'm sure she wasn't ever rejected. It was amazing what you could see in someone's eyes. So I don't know what I'd been missing from Helga's. There were little pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit there, edges of things I didn't recognize and tricks of the light. I lifted up my arms immediately, stepping back.

"Rhonda, there are a lot of things I'd like to talk to you about right now, but I should probably find Phoebe so someone can get Helga home safely."

"She's fine. She's enjoying herself, and," she stepped forward, smiling slightly, "so should you."

I almost rolled my eyes before stopping myself. "Really, though. Maybe I'll see you later," I suggested, wincing as she enthusiastically agreed. Whatever she was planning was absolutely not going to pan out.

"Oh, you're such a gentlemen. Of course! I'll see you soon. Don't keep me waiting." She winked.

I looked through a few rooms before I found her in the corner of the living room. Or, at least, I found Gerald's back, and I assumed she was on the other side. I blushed deeply, not wanting to be intrusive. Or see something I shouldn't. I cleared my throat loudly, but it didn't do anything.

"Gerald!" I said. That worked, he turned around.

"My man!" He was a little tipsy too, and I didn't know how I felt about that. He spread his arms wide to give me a hug I didn't exactly need. I ducked under his outstretched limb to come face-to-face with Phoebe. Gerald made a confused noise from behind me.

"Helga's in the backyard, she drank nearly half a bottle of something. I think someone should take her home."

"Again?" Phoebe pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay. Certainly not her house," she answered. "Perhaps we could walk her to mine and she could stay in my room until we arrived home."

"No, I don't think you should leave her alone. What if she throws up and chokes on her own vomit?" I asked, sounding a little more frantic than I'd meant to.

Her eyes narrowed. "That is highly unlikely, she's only drank…oh, my. _You just left her alone with the bottle_? How long ago? Why didn't you take it?"

"I meant to!"

Gerald squeezed his way between us. "This is great! My favorite two people in the world. I love you guys." He smiled wider than usual. "Why are you so down? Just take her to your house. You have a couch. It's not hard to sneak someone in there, man," he winked and elbowed me, which I ignored.

"Hey, you're right," I said. That was actually an alright idea, if I could survive Helga waking up in the morning and unleashing her wrath. She'd thank me later.

I opened the door that led outside. The cooler nights were remarkably refreshing compared to what I was used to. I saw Helga on a patio chair, her cigarette burning to the filter. The bottle was next to her. I was glad to see she hadn't finished it.

"Helga," I said, cautious. She said something. I wasn't sure what. "Let's go."

She stood up, steadied herself on the armrest. "'Kay. Did you fuck Rhonda yet?"

I ignored her. "Do you need help? Can you walk?"

"Ah, fuck you," she said, tripping and stumbling into me.

"You don't mean that. Here, hold onto my waist. I'll help you."

She mumbled something.

"What was that?"

"I said I don't deserve this, and you deserve better, and your eyes are really green, fuck," she looked up at me.

"You're just drunk. Come on, let's go," I said, refusing to acknowledge that just then.

And so I half-carried Helga Pataki to the boarding house, up through the fire escape, and put her on my bed, turned her on her side so she wouldn't choke on her vomit, said goodnight to someone who wasn't even conscious, and slept in an unoccupied room that night At the time, I didn't know why I'd done that.


	14. Chapter 14

I arrive at this God-forsaken party looking absolutely disheveled, and I didn't care in the very least. Why should I? I may as well embrace messy hair the unhealthily pale complexion that comes with not leaving the house for several days, since looking pressed and polished hasn't ever really done anything good for me now, and I don't know why it would this evening. I'm certain Rhonda is equipped with some absolutely absurd speech about how I look, though, and I avoid her as long as I can, scoping out a fifth of flavorless vodka and claiming it as my own and clutching it tight to my person, as if someone were going to ask for it. I don't plan on drinking the whole thing, or even drinking half of it. I just want it with me so that when the time comes, I'll be able to pour some liquid courage down my throat.

My nerves are getting the best of me, and I feel like my soul is too heavy for my body. I resolve myself to staring intently at some shitty attempt at a Pollock replica in the princess's living room when I feel a body next to me. My luck isn't good enough for it to be Phoebe, and I brace myself for a shrill voice.

"Helga, you've finally emerged! I thought we'd lost you again," Rhonda jokes.

Edgy as I am, I can keep up a nice façade, for the sake of my newly claimed ownership on booze that she bought. I'm having a hard time thinking of a response that wasn't sarcastic, so I just nod and smile vacantly while I wait for her to continue.

"You've got this vibe about you tonight… it's positively _wild_, you look like a mermaid."

"What?" I ask, utterly baffled. That catches me absolutely off-guard, and for a moment, my mood is forgotten.

"Oh, you know, you look like you didn't try at all but somehow managed to look like a siren… how did you get your hair to stick out like that? Mine doesn't even get that way after sex…oh my, speaking of which, look who's here," she concludes her idiotic babbling by pointing at the door, from which the love of my life had just entered. She excuses herself over-excitedly. Apparently my knotted hair stopped being so fascinating. He makes eye contact with me, and a jolt runs through me. I can feel the little sparks inside my soul threatening to spring up and burn me from the inside out, and I promptly douse them with alcohol. The problem is, I forgot that alcohol feeds flames, encourages them to spring to life and char and destroy. So I figure, fuck it. The more I drink, the less feelings I'll have—or at least, the less feelings I'll remember, and the less I'll care about the fire.

Her arms are around his waist and she's pulling in tighter. Drink. He blushes and looks a little scared. Drink. And I realize that I've drank too much too fast, and I need a chaser, and to not watch this, and I'm sorry, Curly, but I just could care less about your evil scheme. I walk in the general direction of the kitchen, sober as a bird for the first five steps and then I feel that delicious effervescence I'd been craving. And all of a sudden, I'm face-to-face with him. And he sees me drinking, and I just can't decide if I'd rather be inebriated or talking to him.

I insult him. He's kind back. I drink. He tries to take it away, and he can't because Jesus, I've just gotten started. I swallow it down again just to spite him. He touches me, and I drink, and Rhonda's here again, and she likes that I'm drinking, and I think, _I've never liked it more than I have now, you unimaginable bitch_. I need to smoke, because I like to smoke, and there's no way to explain how badly I need a cigarette.

So I ask for one, and I drink on my way out, and I light it, and I feel like I'm on a boat, sitting perfectly stationary on a too-fancy patio chair. I light the chair just to ruin it. Rhonda doesn't deserve these frivolous things. She doesn't deserve the important things, either. She certainly doesn't deserve Arnold. I hold my breath, and then exhale slowly. No crying tonight. I take a long drink, then a drag on the sweet, toxic cigarette. The nicotine high is liberating and very real. I'm so drunk now. I repeat this in my head like a mantra. I'm so drunk. I'm so drunk. Shit, I'm so, so drunk.

And Arnold his here, suddenly, and now we're someone on the sidewalk, and then there's blackness, and a brick wall, and I try to tell him that I need to sleep more than I need him, which is very, very badly, but I don't think the words are exiting my mouth. They're fermenting in my throat, causing vomit with the awful, unpleasant taste of alcohol. I don't know where I am, I don't care. I don't have time to think because the world is spinning mercilessly around me and the only friend I can greet with open arms is blackness.


	15. Chapter 15

A tall man with black hair leaned against a cabinet at Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd's house. He liked to think of himself as a wallflower on the verge of blossoming. He watched the party spin circles around him in fast-motion while he remained grounded and sober. He hadn't expected at all for Helga to stick to any plan he'd devised, but she was drinking heavily as he'd thought she would.

When he saw the woman he loved attach to Arnold, he'd felt little cracks in his mask of indifference, but he kept repeating to himself that this was it. _This was it, this was it. _And when he saw Arnold hurry away from that perfect woman, he lazily pushed himself up and slinked out the patio, where he saw the poor guy trying to haul a completely wasted girl away.

Arnold was gone, and now he only had to wait for Rhonda to notice.


	16. Chapter 16

I'm ridiculously thirsty and feel like complete shit. I'm pretty sure I'm still somewhat dreaming, because everything smells like Arnold. It's really light in my room and I'm so hungover that I silently pray for someone to turn off the sun. I roll over and nearly fall out of the bed. I open my eyes to see a light blue room and a red couch. I shoot up, making myself incredibly dizzy. The room spins around me, and I scramble up.

_Shit, shit, shit, what have I done? _Panic is setting in and I stumble, still drunk, over to the ladder that leads to the roof. Arnold isn't in here, and if I get out soon enough, I won't have to confront him. I'm trying really hard to climb up in my dehydrated and confused state when I hear the door open behind me. Like a clumsy idiot, I fall backward.

"Oh, good, you're up. I brought you some water," says the voice I've nearly constantly thought about since I was three.

Defeated, I sit upright. Refusing to make eye contact, I take the glass and drink the entire thing in one long pull.

"Helga, we need to talk," he says awkwardly.

"Look, I don't know what happened last night, but I've never… I mean… if we… did we?"

"Did we what?" Arnold asks, suddenly confused. It occurs to me that we must not have slept together about the exact moment it occurs to him what I meant. "_Oh God_! No, I would never…do that…well, I mean, I might, someday, but not with someone who's drunk, and not someone I'm not dating. _Oh my God_."

I breathe out a sigh of relief and the embarrassment of my implication sets in. I bury my hands in my face. I smell like smoke and bile, and I'm sure I don't look much better.

"If it's all the same to you, Arnold, I need to get out of here and die of humiliation in the privacy of my own room," I stand up, trying to be as dignified as I can, but I'm seeing double and have to lean on a wall for support.

"You don't look like you're in any shape to leave."

"I can take care of myself, thanks. I haven't had too much trouble doing it for the past seventeen years." My tone is overly-bitter, and I just want to evaporate. I don't know what I did last night, but I know it must have been bad.

"You got a little vomit on your shirt," he points out. I look down and roll my eyes.

"Awesome," I say.

"Do you want to borrow a shirt? I can leave while you change. I would have asked you last night, but you didn't seem like you could do it by yourself, and I didn't want to…you know…"

"Uh…yeah," I say, and he tosses me a flannel.

"Don't try to escape, please. You might hurt yourself. Are you hungry?"

"No," I answer. I _had _been planning that. How did he know me so well?

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes. I really want to talk."

I change and begin to dread what's about to happen.


	17. Chapter 17

"Where the hell did they go?" Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd muttered to herself, staring out at the expanse of city from her patio.

"Saw them leave a few minutes ago," was the reply. A handsome man strode out from the shadows. The girl in front of him gave a start and gasped audibly. He grinned, flashing his white teeth.

"Didn't mean to scare you," he backtracked. "The blondes, you meant? He told her he was taking her to his room or something." The man nearly congratulated himself for that one—perfectly incriminating the pair that had just left.

"And who, may I ask, are you?" The girl responded, and air of superiority in her tone.

"I'm Tad," he said, moving closer. "I heard music and thought I'd see what the occasion was."

"No occasion," she answered, batting her eyelashes. "I have soirees like this all the time."

"You must be important," he answered, taking a step closer. She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or serious, and either way she was intrigued.

"You must be dying to get somewhere more comfortable," she answered, this time moving herself a little closer.

And that's when he knew he'd been wrong about this. Because this wasn't right, this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. They weren't supposed to be one-night-stands, ships passing in the night. He was reminded of something he'd written a long time ago in the clinic, when he was still coming to terms with what he thought was the last time he'd ever see Rhonda.

"Train stations," he said quietly, and chuckled to himself. He was aware that he looked mad, and maybe he was. He began to turn as if to leave.

"What did you say?" she asked, her interest truly piqued.

"I said train stations," he answered, turning back. "It would be a shame if we stood next to each other waiting for separate trains in the same station and only noticed how handsome the other looked under dim fluorescent lighting, then hurtled off to different destinations without so much as knowing each other's name."

That might have been when the girl fell in love. She didn't understand what he was saying, though. She couldn't possibly. All she knew was there was a tall, dark, and handsome stranger on her patio speaking in riddles as mysterious as he himself seemed to be.

"Where's that from?"

"I wrote it," he said, noticeably more detached from the conversation. The way he did that, suddenly distancing himself from her, irritated her. She was accustomed to attention, to getting what she wanted. Oddly, though, it made her try harder.

"You're a writer?"

"When I've got a muse," he said, again beginning to close the gap between them.

The door to the house opened and a small girl with black hair and an oversized sweater nearly trotted out. "Rhonda, did you see Arnold take off with—oh." Rhonda turned to see the girl blush, and just about turn on her heel to walk back inside.

"Wait," said the man. "I'm sure your question is important. It's better if I'm on my way anyhow."

Rhonda turned back to face him and when she did, he brushed his lips against her forehead so lightly she wasn't sure if it was purposeful or not.

"I'll see you again," he said, and just as quickly as he came, he was gone into the blackness of the night.


	18. Chapter 18

He walked slowly to his home that night. Slowly, for the first time in his life. He had touched the girl he loved and she had not refused him. She had even invited it, wanted it. He dared to think she may have melted under his lips, the swift action he imparted as he left. He congratulated himself for the courage to give that much. He didn't know he had that much control, to leave after the electric shock of her skin against his.

And he almost was too busy with the smile dancing at the corner of his lips to count the steps, and he almost danced into his room.

He laid in bed and couldn't sleep because of that woman. That woman that made all other women faceless. That woman. All he could do was laugh to himself and feel flowers growing in his hear. That woman.

And he couldn't sleep that night because he was too giddy.

* * *

><p>Her jaw dropped and there was nothing left but him. His scent, so vague, she was terrified she'd forget it. And his figure, disappeared into the dark. There was nothing but him, and as the party ended, her house became as empty as she felt with him gone.<p>

And then she realized she was okay, because he said he'd be back, and somehow she knew it was the first promise a boy had made her that wasn't empty. She looked forward to seeing him. She looked forward to knowing him. To uncovering the mystery.

And she couldn't sleep that night because she was too giddy.


	19. Chapter 19

_ I sat on the boardwalk every day when I was 15. I'd let my legs dangle off the dock. I liked the foggy days the best. The ones when you couldn't see five feet in front of you. I'd watch boats sail in, stare at them, plead with them to take me away. Anywhere. I would go anywhere as long as it was far, far away. _

_ It was drizzling in the late afternoon and most sensible people were inside as I sat and looked steadily at the black water. That year I wore long sleeves, high necklines, and pants every day to cover bruises from Big Bob. I remember that so specifically. It's so odd the little details you remember while forgetting the huge things. I don't recall anything about Olga that year, or what kind of shit I did in school. Everything was a blur except my long sleeves and the waters of the bay. _

_ "Hey," I heard Phoebe's voice from behind me. She came and sat next to me. She was wearing a raincoat. "Aren't you cold?"_

_ "Are you kidding? I could stay out here for hours," I tried to sound tough. _

_ "Helga, can I see your arm?" _

_ At first I didn't know what she meant, and then it occurred to me. I'd been covering my skin for a few months now, acting more distant than usual. And then I almost laughed, because I hadn't even thought to do anything to harm myself. I was already someone else's punching bag. _

_ I hesitated, looked down at my arm, trying to decide which one had less bruising, and then I shook my head. She didn't need to see anything. _

_ "Helga," she said, looking sternly at me. She grabbed one of my arms and pulled up the sleeve. She gasped. "What. You couldn't have done this yourself." _

_ I pulled my arm back and tugged the sleeve over, realizing how wet it was. I was soaking. I wasn't in the mood to spill my heart out all over the dock. I wouldn't be able to come back here if I did. This place was where I went to get away from my emotions, not to confront them. I stood._

_ "Can I stay the night at your place?" I asked. I didn't want to do home. I never wanted to go home.  
>Phoebe hadn't moved. She sat there, her brow knit. A minute later, she looked up, a different emotion in her eyes. Realization? Sympathy? "You can always stay at my place," she said meaningfully. <em>


	20. Chapter 20

"Time for a rodeo, son!" Grandma said as I entered the kitchen.

"Not right now, Grandma," I answered, pouring a glass of orange juice and grabbing a pancake.

"Shortman's got a girl in his room," Grandpa said, chuckling.

I blushed deeply. "No, I don't!"

Grandma looked up from the stove. "Oh, good, invite her down, too!"

"I don't have a girl in my—"

"Hey, I'm not judging," Grandpa said as he poured syrup on his pancakes.

I narrowed my eyes. "Okay, then," I said, shoving a pancake into my mouth and heading upstairs. I knocked on the door that led into my room and heard a voice telling me to enter. That voice sounded odd without hostility attached to it. I slowly turned the knob and came in, sitting on my bed as she clutched the ladder leading upward.

I chewed on my food. "I have some orange juice, if you're still thirsty." I did my best not to make eye contact as I held the glass upward. She took it and handed it hand to me seconds later, completely empty. She sat down, groaning.

"Helga," I began after swallowing, "We should—"

"I know," she said. "We should talk. Look, I know I fucked up last night. It won't happen again. I promise to avoid anything you go to. We can even work out a schedule or something so you don't have to see me."

"Helga," I said, looking up at her. Without makeup, and in my shirt, and angry, she looked so similar to how she did in elementary school. It struck me that she hadn't changed that much. Not really. She just got rid of her unibrow and got a different hairstyle. She was always pretty, I guess. You just had to look past the rough exterior. "What are you talking about?"

She stared for a second. "I figured…"

"Well, you figured wrong. Helga, I don't want to never see you again," I said.

"Y-you don't?" Helga asked, sounding truly surprised.

"No. Of course not."

"So what did you want to talk about, Footba—Arnold?"

I chuckled to myself at that. "I think I know why you were so mean to me all those years. To everyone, really. But me in particular."

"Y-you do?" Helga asked. I looked up and she was frozen. She looked scared, actually. It was strange. What I was talking about wasn't really _that _intrusive. If anything, she should be intrigued.

"Yeah. I guess no one really took the time to understand you, except Phoebe. I don't know. Fear and all that." That didn't come out at all like I planned, in fact, it sounded stupid coming out. I'd even had this long speech prepared. I don't know what happened to it.

"Right. Right," she said. She almost looked relieved. She exhaled. "Well, I should go." She stood up again, clutching the ladder and putting a foot on the first step.

"You don't have to go out that way," I said. "My grandparents already know I have a girl over."

Her eyes widened and she stepped down. She took a gulp of air, clearly uneasy. "How?"

"I don't know. I'm sure they know it's you, too. We can go out the front if you want."

"Me? We?" Helga looked confused and terrified. I felt bad for her, really. I didn't know why she seemed this nervous, though. I took her arm and led her to the door. I stopped in front of it. She was so stiff. I kept hold of her arm and steadied her shaking body. She nearly leaned against me before she caught herself. Some hormonal part of my brain wish she'd fallen on me, so I could feel her weight on me. I don't know. That might make me a jerk.

"Well, I'm walking you home, of course," I said, looking down at her. I hope she hadn't expected to go alone.

"Arnold, I can go myself." She shook off my arm and tried to turn the doorknob that I was standing against. "Fucking footballhead let me out," she muttered, mostly to herself.

I laughed. "You haven't changed."

She stopped, her cheeks were red. "What do you mean?"

"Never mind," I said, and grabbed her arm again, opening the door. She protested for a minute and we took a few steps forward. I wasn't about to let go, though, afraid that she'd fall. And then, once we were halfway down the stairs and she could see the boarding house at breakfast, she acted well-mannered.

"Are you sure you don't want breakfast?" I asked.

I could hear her stomach grumble. "No," she said stubbornly.

"You're _sure_?" I asked, almost teasing her.

"_Yes_," she hissed quietly. "_I am absolutely sure._"

"You sound kind of hungry…" I said.

"_Let. Go. Of. Me._"

Again, I chuckled. Her stomach again made a loud noise. "You can stand outside if you'd like, I can grab you bacon or something…"

"Eleanor!" My grandmother shouted. "Eleanor, come have some breakfast!" She nearly ran to the foot of the stairs.

"Thanks, but I should be going," Helga said politely.

"Eleanor?" I asked.

"I insist," she said, grabbing Helga out of my arm.

"Oh, it's that two-eyebrowed girl!" Grandpa said from the kitchen.

And that's how Helga spent a pleasant morning with my family, and I saw a side of her I didn't expect, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen and watching her treat my grandma like she wasn't crazy, and my grandpa like he wasn't rude to her. And I didn't care that later on, grandpa would inevitable tease me for having had a girl stay in my room overnight. He didn't know what happened anyway.

As I watched them, her light hair underneath the morning sun cast from the window, and grandma treating her like an old friend, and the rest of the boardinghouse welcoming her like her own, I don't know. I felt something stirring in my chest. Like something was right. Like this was right.


	21. Chapter 21

She had dreamed of this; of a man who could fulfill all of this that she wanted. He fulfilled her fantasies and yet she could not shake a feeling that it was _too _perfect. As he stepped out into the morning sunlight in front of her house, her giddiness from the previous night became a sickening uneasiness. Whether that was nervousness or fearfulness, she was unsure.

"You only wear four colors," he said.

"Excuse me?" Rhonda answered.

"You wear red, white, navy blue, or black, exclusively. It's very interesting," Tad said, smiling at her and offering his hand. She took it, her brow furrowed.

"Why do you know that?" Rhonda asked, her voice shaky.

Quick to answer, Tad said, "Oh, I've been to a few of your parties before. I noticed your beauty, of course, and remembered you."

"Oh," she exhaled, relieved, but she still felt something wrong deep down. "Where are we going?" she asked, as he led her to a car.

"It's a long drive but I know this diner in Olympia. It's amazing."

"O-okay," she answered, getting into the car. "It's like, 40 minutes right? I could get a limo or something. It'd be a more fun drive."

"No, I think this will be better. We can talk, we can pick music together."

"We can do that in one of my family's limos," she answered, trying and failing to sound regal.

"Rhonda, let's do this the way blue-collar, normal people do."

"Okay, but only this once," she said, making it as clear as she could that she was in power.


End file.
